He smiles back, softer now. “Estra. I named her Estra.”
The name carries with it a memory. Arax, brave, noble, infuriating Arax, my friend, my protector. A Fae who loved his daughter as fiercely as I love mine.
“That is a good name,” I whisper, and I lay my hand over his, still cupping my cheek. “It’s a warrior’s name.”
“With parents like us,” he says, his smile deepening, “the child had no chance of being anything else.”
“Then let us gather our forces, husband,” I say, rising, my voice clear and sure. “Let us bring Estra home.”
“Yes, wife,” he breathes, lifting my hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to my palm, light as wind, eternal as promise.
His eyes drift to the dirt crusted beneath my fingernails, to the smudges of soil painting every inch of my skin. He kisses my wrist.
“Let me take care of you.”
Before I can protest, Daed reaches over his shoulder, grips his shirt in one hand and pulls it off, casting it aside on the riverbank. His body is as I remember it. Every plane and line etched into my memory by touch and hunger. But now, those same planes are bruised and battered, the once-smooth skin streaked with blood and dust.
His hands find the edge of my robe, woven from vines and flowers, the garb of my rebirth, and slide beneath it. Slowly, reverently, he eases it from my shoulders. It slips away, falling soundlessly to the grass. I stand bare before him, heart pounding like war drums.
He dips his chin and kisses me, first the curve of my neck, then the hollow of my collarbone, then the space between my breasts. Each touch is a spark, each breath against my skin a vow of devotion. My nerves come alive, burning molten beneath his lips.
The river calls softly beside us, and when he takes my hand and leads me in, the water’s cool caress feels like a baptism. His leathers creak as he lowers himself onto a submerged stone, the water reaching his waist. He pulls me down between his legs, my back pressed to the sculpted warmth of his chest. I feel his breath at my ear, his heartbeat steady against my spine, as he scoops handfuls of water and lets it run over me.
The dirt melts away beneath his touch. His hands move slowly, over my shoulders, down my arms, over my breasts and stomach, along the curve of my hips, down to my thighs and feather-light between my legs. His touch is tender, worshipful, and I feel myself unraveling with every pass of his fingers.
When he gathers water and runs it through my hair, his fingers massage my scalp until the river runs clear again. I close my eyes, lean into him, drowning in his gentleness.
But the need to touch him grows too sharp to ignore. I turn, kneeling between his legs, water swirling around us. Our eyes lock, his storm meeting my earth, and the air between us crackles. I cup water in my palms and pour it over his chest, watching the rivulets trace down his ribs and abs, washing away blood and battle.
He winces when my fingers graze a bruise, hisses softly when I near a wound. I dip my head and press a kiss to the bruised flesh, and his body shudders as the mark fades beneath my lips. His hands tighten at my hips, his breath deep and ragged as I slide my body against his cock, his leathers creaking. I move higher, my hands caress every inch of smooth skin, feeling the hard muscles flex beneath.
When my fingers reach his face, I wash away the grime, trace the lines I love so well. My hands tangle in his hair, slick and dark, gripping lightly at the roots and still, we do not break our gaze.
“I love you, Amara,” he breathes, voice rough and trembling. “I have always loved you. I loved you without wanting to. Without trying to. I loved you because I had no choice. Because you were already written into my soul.”
I smile through the ache in my chest, cradle his face between my hands, and kiss him, slow and deep and infinite, until time itself bends around us, and the world is nothing but the sound of our hearts finding each other again.
Chapter 44
Amara
Daed and I return to the village, and I feel closer to him than I ever have before. Something in him has changed quietly, profoundly. It’s as if he has finally found the key to his prison, the one forged of guilt and grief and wrath, and stepped free of it at last. The weight that once bent his shoulders has lifted. My dark prince, who once wore his sorrow like armor, now walks in the light.
Ronin once told me that love cannot exist without trust. I hadn’t wanted to listen then. I hadn’t wanted to admit that I, too, harbored doubt. But now, walking beside this beautiful Fae who has laid every scar, every sin bare before me, I understand.
Because I do trust him.
The vine wall parts for me with a whispering sigh, leaves brushing over one another like tongues of silk. It seals behind us with a soft groan. The Tenders bow as we pass, their eyes lowered to the ground, their reverence a weight I can feel pressing against my skin. None turn their backs until I am gone from sight.
Once, I was their Jewel of the Tenders. Their Sister of the Vine. A guide, a guardian. But this… this is something else entirely. I have only ever seen such reverence given to the Souls of the Forest themselves. Is that what they see when they look at me now? Something godlike? The thought makes me shudder.
I will not let them think of me as anything more than what I am. So I smile. I reach out. I touch their hands and speak their names, reminding them, and myself, that I am still Amara. I will always be Amara. Especially to my people.
We reach the courtyard, and Daed turns to me, his hands resting gently on my shoulders. He lifts my chin with a knuckle, and for a moment I’m caught by the way the sunlight breaks behind him, gilding the dark waves of his hair. It always looks strange to me when it’s dry, untempered by rain or battle.
“I will gather the Fae,” he says, his touch trailing along my neck as he brushes my hair over my shoulder, lingering on the two crescent-shaped marks.
I nod, but my thoughts have drifted elsewhere. He notices it. His gaze sharpens. “What is it?” he asks quietly. “What do you need?”
